Two Clowns in a Bathroom, One's Missing a Hand
by RainboneCaink
Summary: PSYCHOVILLE After losing a hand, and being weaned off morphine, Jelly leaves the hospital. Stuart tags along. Almost slash, teeny bit spoilery.


A/N: No, I don't know why I bothered to write this, partly because it's totally nonsensical, partly because almost nobody has seen Psychoville.  
On the offchance that Reece or Steve ever read this: I am sorry I've done strange things to your characters.

* * *

"I can get in the bloody bath on my own, Stuart," Jelly quipped upon walking in. His irritation mirrored his rather haggard appearance; the greasepaint he wore had become smudged and faded having been worn for a week. He had refused to take it off. "-And why've you put bubble bath in? I'm not six, am I?"

Stuart, perched on the lid of the toilet, wondered if Jelly would wash the paint off in the bath with him in the room, watching. Surely he'd need to shave? And surely he'd want to reapply it? He found the whole thing somewhat perplexing, and thought that the refusal to be seen as anything other than a masterful clown- Mister Jelly- was either extremely egotistical or a case for his mother at the asylum. Either way, he was becoming something of an enigma to Stuart, who would sometimes find himself wondering what Sean looked like under his greasepaint facade.

Sean- Jelly- stared down at him with a frown.

"Are you gonna fuck off then?"

"Hm? Oh, no. No I can't leave you alone because you're a suicide risk," Stuart replied.

Water dripped into the bath from the leaky tap.

Jelly rolled his eyes. "What am I gonna do, slit my wrists with a bic?" He asked, exasperated, tilting his head and holding his arms out. He looked down and realised once again that he only had one hand left to gesticulate with, and gave a resigned sneer. Shrugging, he reached to unbutton his ruff. "I'd only be able to do one, anyway," He muttered, shucking off a shoe.

Yes, Stuart thought, and God only knows how he'd crack the plastic open.

He counted the drips from the tap in his head as Jelly removed cuffs and gloves and various articles of clothing, piling them up into a heap on the floor. He wasn't sure if he should be watching, but he wondered if deliberately _not_ watching would make him seem unprofessional... It was fine, after all, for Doctors to have intimate knowledge of their patients-

"No- look, no, I can't have you staring at my nob."

Stuart was shaken out of his thoughts at the sight of Jelly- Sean- staring at him in briefs with raised eyebrows. He wasn't really much to look at. He was, Stuart noted, perfectly average- leaner than himself, with skinny ankles and arms and patchy hair on his legs. It was the way he carried himself that made him seem so... interesting; standing there brazenly before an acquaintance that he'd only known for a week. Stuart would rather have died than have a virtual stranger see him in the altogether, but Sean seemed to not particularly care either way.

"Stuart!"

"Sorry,"

So long as nobody stared at his nob, apparently. Stuart turned away until he'd heard the water settling.

"I don't care if you're a bummer, you know," Jelly said evenly, foaming up soap in his hands.

"Oh! Oh, no. No I'm not gay,"

The clown snorted and raised a leg to wash between his toes. The other shifted uncomfortably on his seat and tried not to look at the gaps between the bubbles.

"Eh, not that I'd be in a position to refuse- clowns don't get many offers," He went on, tilting to wash the other foot. "-and the ones who do offer, they're the ones you've got to watch."

The quiet, persistent sounds of dripping and limbs splashing through water allowed Stuart to drift off into his thoughts once again. He brought a hand up to smooth down his moustache. Jelly- Sean- didn't seem to be coping too badly. They'd been trying to work out a new prosthetics-themed clowning routine earlier and it had been going well. He seemed rather more crass and sarcastic than he had been before the operation, but he supposed that clowns couldn't be on duty all the time. Of course not, though that had Stuart wondering about why the greasepaint never came off. Occasionally, Stuart would see something darkening behind his grey eyes. It worried him, and he wondered if Sean could see the same thing in himself.

"Why'd you not just send a social worker to check on me?" Sean asked, quietly.

Why indeed? Well, It was probably the least he could do after amputating his hand-

"...Well... I thought we were getting to know each other," Stuart ventured, warily. Also, he thought, he had no idea what to do with the bereavement leave he'd been given.

The dripping had stopped.

Oh, _Mother_-

"I just thought it would be easier." He went on, utterly amazed that he hadn't betrayed himself. His nerves (often frayed) were not as steady as his voice seemed to be.

"Yeah," Sean said, words cutting through the tension. "I fucking hate social workers."


End file.
